The Honor of the Republic
by solnishka
Summary: Grelda, a patriotic Bastoker, joined the military to serve her country. In the aftermath of a disastrous ambush she starts to realize that her beloved city has a dark underbelly, and that a new threat is coming from within.
1. To Zegham Hill

"Up, up, you lazy Quadav bootlickers!" the training instructor bellowed, slamming his cudgel against the brass gong at one end of the barracks. The metal resounded loudly, dragging the recruits into wakefulness and forcing them to feel their aching muscles. Several groaned in protest—but the more sensible ones did so quietly; Decurion Torin was notoriously abusive.

"I don't get it," Kimal murmured to Grelda as the two donned their training uniforms that marked them as recruit Legionnaires of the Republic of Bastok. "Quadav don't wear boots."

"It's a figure of speech, dummy," Grelda growled, stomping her feet into her boots and huffing as she pulled her armor on. The leather padding beneath the bronze reeked of old sweat and had a suspicious bloodstain under one arm—the legacy of whatever recruit it had belonged to before coming into Grelda's possession. Kimal's was the same, minus the bloodstain. The rest of their ten-soldier contubernium dressed around them, swallowing yawns and rubbing the grit out of their eyes in between hurried motions. They had less than a minute to ready themselves before Torin trooped them out of the barracks and into the vast, pre-dawn training square.

A few contuberniums of Iron Musketeers were training at the far end of the square, drilling in silence. The only noise was the thud of their boots on the cobbles and the hiss of their swords into and out of their scabbards. They moved in perfect sync with one another, decimating a squad of wooden dummies with ruthless efficiency. The recruits watched them enviously.

Kimal nudged Grelda's shoulder. "That's gonna be you someday, huh?" the male Hume said.

"Oh, _yes_," Grelda hissed, her eyes shining with delight as she watched. She clutched the hilt of her cheap, mass-produced bronze training sword, lost in dreams of glory.

"Attention!" Decurion Torin screamed, slamming the butt of his cudgel against the cobbles. "Ten laps of the square for gawking! Go!"

"Oh dearest of friends, please remind me why I joined the military," Kimal said, falling in step beside Grelda as they started their first lap.

Grelda grimaced, but replied: "Good pay, amazing retirement benefits—"

"If you live to get them!" Baleful Wind growled. The Galka was the most massive of all the recruits in the contubernium, but struggled to keep up with his Hume companions with his shorter legs. Running long distances was hard for him, but unlike Kimal he had yet to utter a complaint.

"People buy you drinks sometimes," Irina pointed out, "and there's military discounts at shops."

The talk died down as the number of laps progressed, replaced by increasingly ragged panting. Irina stumbled and was dragged upright by Baleful Wind before she could fall. Grelda stayed at Kimal's side, growling encouragement and occasionally threats to keep her friend from falling behind. As the sun peeked over the massive rock walls of the city, the recruits completed their tenth lap and fell into position in front of their decurion.

"That was _disgusting_," Torin snarled. "You're a disgrace to the Legions of the Republic! If I had my way I'd send you all home this very moment with a kick to your flabby behinds. Unfortunately, the Quadav are increasing in number, so the Legions must scrape the bottom of the barrel for recruits like you. Now, it's time to drill. If you can by some miracle perform decently, I'll consider letting you eat. Pair off!"

Grelda turned towards Kimal, standing the designated three paces away from her friend. She pulled her sword from its scabbard.

"_Did I say 'draw swords'?_" Torin screamed. "You! If you're so eager for action, pair with that brute of a Galka rather than a wimpy Hume." He pointed, and Grelda pushed her sword back into her scabbard and went to stand before Baleful Wind. They gave each other businesslike glowers.

"Draw swords!"

They drew them.

"Attack!"

Grelda darted forward, her sword like a bronze serpent striking towards the Galka's unprotected underarm. He parried the thrust and swung towards her side, causing Grelda to jump backwards. She almost collided with another pair, but spun out of the way and darted forward again, taking Baleful Wind's blow on her shield. She winced as the sword connected with the lauan boards; the Galka wasn't holding back, and his strike numbed her arm. His sword swung towards her knees, and Grelda parried desperately.

"Enjoying yourself, recruit?" Torin demanded.

"Yes, sir!" Grelda panted. "Couldn't be happier, sir!"

She tried to think as sweat plastered her cropped blonde hair to her skull under her bronze cap. Baleful Wind was easily twice as strong as her, and only a little bit slower. He stood planted in place, as immovable as a mountain, while Grelda flitted around him like a demented fly. What could work against him? Grelda parried another stroke and took another blow on her shield—which was starting to splinter, cheap thing that it was.

Grelda ducked under a high blow and went for the Galka's legs, scoring a hit against one knee that made Baleful Wind wince. That was sure to bruise. He wobbled but didn't stumble, and Grelda darted to her partner's shield-side. She thrust at his knee again before Baleful Wind could pivot to meet her, and this time the leg gave out beneath the blow.

"That was almost passable, recruit," Torin said. "A true Legionnaire would have done it in a quarter of the time and not have wasted half her energy dancing around. And you, Galka—remember to move your feet next time."

Baleful Wind grimaced. "Yes, sir," he rumbled, and accepted Grelda's hand in helping him to his feet.

Off to one side, Kimal was fighting for his life against Irina, who had been a tavern dancer before waltzing into the recruitment office. She was smaller than Grelda and also quicker, and possessed a Mithra-like grace that lent itself well to one-on-one combat—but she tired easily, and was panting hard as Kimal's clumsy strokes slowly but surely drove her to an exhausted surrender. Torin turned his attention to berating them, and Grelda and Baleful Wind took their moment of respite to grin wearily at each other before facing off again.

"What do you see in that Hume man?" Baleful Wind asked beneath the noise of their blades clanging together.

"Kimal? We were neighbors growing up, friends from infancy. I've always looked after him," Grelda said, parrying another stroke. Now that the Galka was more interested in refining his technique than winning, he was much easier to fight. He was making an effort to move his feet now, and Grelda obliged him by exaggerating her own movements, allowing his eyes to follow her feet and mirror her varied stances.

"He followed you into the Legion?"

"He doesn't want to be a shopkeeper like his parents."

Kimal's family's business involved importing teas, spices, and luxury goods from Aht Urgan, and it wasn't exactly flourishing—to the point that Kimal's mother was meeting with Tenshodo representatives, which had caused her son to storm out of their home and sleep on Grelda's floor for a week before tagging along to the recruitment office. But the Galka didn't need to know all that.

"And you?" Baleful Wind asked.

"I want to be an Iron Musketeer."

The Galka laughed softly. "Don't lie, Grelda."

"What—"

"Stand down and sheathe weapons! You've earned your breakfast," Torin said, and sniffed. "Barely."

The recruits formed a column and marched to the mess hall, where they received cups of water and bowls of barley porridge. The porridge was unseasoned, but the morning's exertion ensured they ate hungrily. They did so in silence, knowing better than to chatter under Torin's hawkish gaze, and then assembled in the square again. Torin paced in front of them, looking them up and down.

"Today," the decurion announced, "we are leaving the city and going out into Gustaberg for some field exercises. You will learn how to make camp in hostile territory, as well as how to eat, sleep, and stay alive with goblins and Quadav breathing down your scrawny necks. Disappoint me, and you might find yourself with a blade through your neck tonight."

"Is he going to do it himself or let the goblins at us?" Kimal asked, his lips barely moving. Grelda stepped on his foot.

The contubernium marched through Bastok Markets. They were largely ignored by the populace; military formations going through the city were becoming more and more common as the Quadav increased their presence in Gustaberg and the Palborough Mines. A few civilian Humes waved, but the recruits knew better than to break discipline by waving back. They went through the gate to Bastok Mines, where the demographic of the city shifted: there were more Galka than Humes now, and they were poorer. The contubernium received glowers and glares rather than cheerful greetings, and it was almost a relief to march out the gate into South Gustaberg.

Grelda was all but vibrating with excitement as she marched into the dusty sunshine of the wasted landscape. Gustaberg! A place to venture forth and do battle in the service of the Republic! She glanced around surreptitiously, and saw the other recruits doing their best to take in the landscape without attracting Torin's attention. Horatio was betrayed by the twitching of his head, but the other recruits only moved their eyes. Most had never been outside the safety of the city walls before. They marched east, into the glare of the rising sun.

Grelda startled slightly as a worm surfaced under her foot, performing an awkward hop in full armor to avoid tripping. Behind her, Lowen wasn't so lucky; he kicked the worm in the head before it could slide back underground, and it began casting Stone. The Hume fell over as a large chunk of quartz shifted under his feet, causing Torin to look back from the head of the column.

"Contubernium! Battle formation!" the decurion barked.

After four weeks of training the response was automatic: the recruits drew their swords and formed a circle around the worm, which seemed confused by all the vibrations of booted feet moving around it. The face-off felt silly—ten Bastokers against a lone worm—but Grelda consoled herself with the knowledge that their numbers ensured nobody would be seriously injured by the creature.

"Blondie and the Galka, attack! The rest of you corpse-maggots prepare to provide support," Torin said.

Grelda didn't have time to allow herself to feel offended by the nickname. She stepped forward as Baleful Wind stomped his huge feet and drew the worm's attention, slicing her sword towards the creature's head... and missing.

"Should I have picked someone else, Blondie?" Torin demanded.

Grelda gritted her teeth and tried again. _This_ time she made a deep gash along the worm's ribbed side. The worm turned and swung its body towards her. She raised her shield, but staggered as the worm's body struck the wood. Baleful Wind sliced the creature's exposed length in half.

"Congratulations," Torin said, his voice dripping with disdain, "you barely survived a Stone Eater attack. Form ranks! We have ground to cover before sunset!"

Once more, the contubernium formed a column. They resumed their march eastward, now paying more attention to the ground under their feet. Puffs of dust were kicked up with each step, and Grelda found herself licking her chapped lips and thinking wistfully of the lukewarm water sloshing in her canteen. The sun glared down as it advanced across the sky, rising higher and higher and eventually reaching its zenith. Vultures cried mournfully overhead, and hornets buzzed around their hives in the rock.

Grelda's feet ached. Her shoulders ached, too, and her knees and hips and back. She felt uncomfortably warm under the weight of her bronze armor, and every inch of her seemed sticky with sweat. The rest of the recruits were starting to drag their feet a little, their marching steps losing their crispness. Kimal especially seemed on the edge of complete exhaustion, though it wasn't a particularly hot day.

"Are you alright?" Grelda hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

"Not really," Kimal admitted. "I want to rest."

"Fat chance," Baleful Wind growled. "Now quiet before you get us in trouble."

They passed from South Gustaberg to the eastern portion of North Gustaberg, heading towards Zegham Hill. Quadav eyed them from a respectable distance, but seemed to decide against attacking in the face of superior numbers.

"Wish I had a bow to shoot those beastmen," Lowen murmured, "my Da was killed by one of those things."

"We should have wiped them out after the Crystal War," Kimal said. "The Windurstians actually make _treaties_ with the Yagudo, can you believe that? Consorting with beastmen."

"And the Aht Urganites employ them as mercenaries," Lowen hissed back. "Shut your face, you hypocrite."

"I left the Empire before I was old enough to walk," Kimal growled. "I'm a Bastoker, same as you."

"You'll never be a _real_ Bastoker, you—"

"Quiet in the ranks!" Torin said.

They reached the base of Zegham Hill and toiled up its slope, wending their way around the few stubby trees that clung to life in the arid valley. Protected by the Hill's flanks, a sparse carpet of tough grasses grew here, grazed by feral sheep that gave the contuberniun a wide berth. The recruits reached the summit, panting, and looking around at the headstones and monument.

"This is where the Palborough Pioneers were laid to rest," Torin announced, standing in front of the monument with his hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight gleamed on his armor. "This was once hallowed ground, but has now become a refuge for goblins. Over the course of the next week we are going to destroy every filthy beastman that dares to set foot on Zegham. If you survive, you'll become true Legionnaires. If not... your comrades will have to drag your worthless carcasses back to Bastok for your mothers to weep over. And now we entrench."

Grelda swallowed a sigh and unstrapped her standard-issue pick and spade from her pack, then began digging as directed. The decurion wanted a ditch that was two spade-lengths wide and one spade-length deep—or six feet wide and three feet deep—across the entrance to Zegham's summit, and the dirt produced to be compacted down into a low wall on the interior side. It was hot, filthy work, and she was soon sweating harder than ever. Kimal panted beside her, while Baleful Wind worked in silence on her other side. Grelda was fortunate: her hands were already callused and tough from working in her father's forge, and the rough wood of the spade's handle didn't cause her to blister. Kimal and Irina weren't so lucky, and after an hour or so were wincing with pain as they shoveled. Horatio was the luckiest of all, however; he was on watch duty, surveying the surrounding terrain for beastmen.

By late afternoon the crude fortification was complete. Torin walked back and forth around it, judging their work.

"Do you think the goblins roaming Gustaberg are all decrepit cripples?" he demanded. "Deeper! Deeper! Blondie, take up watch duty."

Grelda strapped her pick and shovel back to her pack and shouldered it, took a quick swig from her canteen, and hopped out of the ditch. She marched along the perimeter of Zegham's summit, looking out over the brown and rocky expanse of Gustaberg laid out before her. A few tiny Quadav moved around below, and a trio of Goblin Fishers were casting their lines at Obere Creek. One caught a fish and began gutting it on a flat stone with a tiny knife. The Fisher was interrupted by a Mithra adventurer coming up and shooting it in the back with a bow, causing it to abandon its task and take up its ax. Its friends joined it, and the adventurer turned and began running to the entrance of Port Bastok.

"Adventurers," Torin said, coming to stand next to her. "No discipline, no sense, and the Republic treats them all as visiting heroes for doing the most menial tasks." He sneered down at the retreating Mithra pursued by the trio of goblins.

"Yes, sir," Grelda said, knowing she wasn't being asked for her opinion. "Should we take up arms and help, sir?"

"No need; she'll make it to the gate," Torin said, then cast a disapproving eye towards Grelda. "We're too far away to provide aid, recruit."

"Sorry, sir. Kneejerk reaction to seeing a person in trouble, sir."

"Use your head before you move your mouth, Blondie," Torin said, but with an odd lack of venom.

"Yes, sir."

"Besides, we'll kill all those goblins tomorrow."

"_Yes, sir_."

The ditch and wall were completed to the decurion's satisfaction by late afternoon. They left behind Gerrin and Lowen as sentries and marched up and down the pathway traversing Zegham's slopes, but found no goblins. Privately, Grelda believed the beastmen had cleared out of the area following the contubernium's arrival; what lone goblin, or even a trio of goblins, would want to face ten Legionnaires-to-be of the Republic of Bastok?

As the sun was setting they reluctantly returned to Zegham's summit, kindled a fire a respectful distance away from the headstones and monument, and ate a frugal meal of stewed meat, hardtack, and water. A rotating watch was set for the night, and as the moon rose the recruits bedded down for the night.

* * *

Lowen paced in a circle around the perimeter of the hill's summit, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The moon was full tonight, washing everything in pale, greenish-silver light, and the stars were bright. Lowen could look up and clearly make out the North Star, and, around it, the constellations of Sleipnir and the Behemoth.

The campfire had burned down to barely-glowing embers, and the recruits were asleep in their bedrolls. In the encampment's lone tent, decurion Torin was silent and presumably asleep as well. Lowen spared a glance towards the tent flap, then sat down with a soft sigh of relief at the edge of the summit to rest his aching feet. His eyes flicked from bedroll to bedroll, watching Grelda snore for a moment and then seeing Gerrin roll over. Irina muttered something, caught in the grips of some dream, then quieted.

All was well.

Lowen looked back up at the stars, then grunted as a wire garrote was slipped around his neck and tightened.


	2. Beneath the Moon

"Awake! Awake! To arms!" Torin bellowed.

Grelda's eyes snapped open. She groped for her sword and scrambled out of her bedroll, drawing the weapon and throwing the scabbard aside. As much as she and the other recruits had resented the order to sleep in full kit, she was glad she had done so now and already had her armor on.

"We're under attack!" Gerrin screamed, waving his sword at the dozen or so hunched, dark shapes swarming over the edge of Zegham's summit. They had completely ignored the entrenchments the contubernium had dug and were somehow scaling Zegham's flanks, perhaps rappelling. They were too small to be Quadav—goblins, then. Lowen's prone form lay off to one side, unmoving.

"Battle Formation A!" Torin shouted, and the nine remaining recruits formed a rough circle around their decurion, their swords and shields pointed outward. The goblins milled around just out of range, the moonlight glinting on the eyepieces of their masks. They were making low, grunting noises that were... laughter? They were laughing at the contubernium? Grelda felt a moment of puzzlement, then saw some of the goblins pull round objects out of their packs. She first assumed they were severed heads, meant to unnerve the recruits and cause them to break formation, but Torin called out—

"Bombs! Pair off and scatter! Quickly, before they—"

The decurion was drowned out as the goblins tossed the explosives into the center of the circle. Grelda was already diving to one side, but she was still knocked off-balance by the explosions that made the ground tremble beneath her feet. She felt a blast of heat and heard a great noise like a clap of thunder directly overhead, and then staggered upright with a ringing noise in her ears.

A goblin rushed at her with a dagger. Grelda parried the first swipe, knocking the weapon out of the beastman's hand, then stabbed forward and took the goblin in the chest. Dark blood oozed down the front of the goblin's tunic, and it writhed on her sword before going limp. Grelda stared down at it, shocked that her training sword could ever draw blood, that _she_ could draw blood, that she could even kill...

"Grelda! Wake up!" Baleful Wind bellowed.

Grelda looked up just in time to see another goblin rushing at her, this one a Tinkerer armed with a sword. She wrenched her own sword free of the carcass and danced aside from the first swing of the weapon, trying to glance around—and almost tripped over Horatio's corpse. She stumbled, and for a moment her comrade's bloody, lifeless face was the only thing she could see in front of her eyes, and then the Tinkerer's sword arced towards her again. Grelda instinctively raised her left arm where her shield was supposed to be, then realized—too late—that her lauan shield was lying next to wherever her bedroll was. The Tinkerer's sword bit through the bronze-covered leather protecting her arm, but scored only a shallow gash in the soft flesh beneath. The goblin snarled in frustration and swung again. Grelda parried desperately.

"Help! Help!" Kimal called.

Grelda screamed his name, but couldn't look away from her opponent. This goblin was _strong_. And fast. Grelda, always light on her feet, backed and backed away from the strokes of its sword, frequently risking a glance over her shoulder to make sure she didn't fall over something; that would be fatal. She glimpsed Baleful Wind go down, bleeding from a dozen wounds and beset by four goblins at once, and saw Irina crouching behind a headstone. The Hume woman had lost her sword and was clutching a non-regulation dagger in one white-knuckled hand, the whites of her eyes shining in the moonlight. As Grelda went past her Irina rose and twisted in one fluid motion, stabbing towards the gap in the Tinkerer's armor between its neck and shoulder. The goblin jumped away from the stroke.

"Where's Kimal?" Grelda shouted.

"Don't know!" Irina shouted back, then dove to one side as the Tinkerer lunged towards her. Its back was to Grelda now, and she stabbed towards the goblin's pack, pushing it off-balance and causing it to fall over. Irina flitted to Grelda's side, but the Tinkerer was already righting itself. Grelda glanced over her shoulder, and her heart leaped into her throat: they were almost at the edge of the summit! A steep drop yawned just a few feet away.

"Grelda!" Irina said, and the Hume woman looked back just in time to see the Tinkerer pull another round object out of its pack. Irina tackled Grelda to the side, shielding her with her body as the goblin tossed its bomb. They rolled together, and Grelda felt her legs go over the edge of the summit. She clawed at the dirt with the hand not holding her sword, trying to find purchase and pull herself up, already slipping further over the edge.

The bomb landed in front of her face. Grelda let go and fell with Irina.

They tumbled down the slope, rolling over and over, their bodies banging against rocks and rubble. They landed together on the path traversing the slope halfway down Zegham's height. Mercifully, Grelda had managed to keep hold of her sword, and even more mercifully had managed to avoid accidentally impaling herself or Irina during the fall. After several moments of exhausted, terrified panting she slowly dragged herself into a sitting position, twisting her body this way and that to make sure all of her limbs were in working order. There were bruises aplenty but nothing seemed to be broken, and Grelda crawled to Irina's side where the woman lay on the ground.

"Irina? Irina, are you alive?"

Irina groaned. "Barely," she said.

"Can you get up?"

"I think I can..."

Shakily, the two women got to their feet, with Grelda using her sword as a cane. They looked at each other.

"We have to go back and help the others," Grelda said.

"We can't. They're probably all dead by now."

"You don't know that."

"I'm positive."

"But Kimal—"

"Is gone into the arms of the Goddess. It was a massacre up there, Grelda. We can't do anything except get back to the city."

"You want to _run away_?" Grelda demanded.

"I want to stay alive!" Irina shot back. "Do you really want to go back to the top? Let's see: there are two of us against a dozen goblins—"

"Eleven goblins. I killed one."

"Ooh, good for you. So two recruit Legionnaires against _eleven_ goblins. Only one of those recruits has her sword, and the other is wounded. I can definitely see us—"

"Wait, wait, you're injured?"

"Yeah, one of them got me in the thigh." Irina gestured towards her leg, which was dark and shining with wet blood down to the ankle. Grelda immediately knelt down and undid her belt, using it as a tourniquet above the wound.

"I don't have any bandages..."

"No kidding," Irina said, her voice heavy with bitterness. "Everything except our armor is at the top of this stinking hill. Now, will you help me get back to Bastok, or do you still want to die a hero's death?"

"I'll help you," Grelda said firmly. She tucked Irina's arm over her shoulder and let the other woman lean on her as she limped down the hill. Two Black Wolves stood over the disemboweled carcass of a feral sheep, howling in victory. Irina and Grelda gave them a wide berth and stepped onto the dusty terrain of Gustaberg proper. Grelda's arm hurt, and when she looked down at it she saw a sheet of drying blood that reached almost to her wrist. The shallow gash had almost stopped bleeding on its own.

"Where did you get that knife, Irina?" Grelda asked.

"This?" Irina asked, flipping her dagger up in the air and catching it again. She attempted a watery grin. "Stole it from a pompous adventurer years ago. It's my good luck charm now."

"So you're a thief."

"Got a problem with that?"

Grelda didn't answer.

"I grew up in a slum, Grelda," Irina said. "Daddy was dead and Mommy was a drinker; I stole to survive, and then I got good enough at it that I stole to make money."

"I thought you were a dancer."

"Oh, I danced too—for fun. Living on tips is hard, picking pockets and pinching purses is easier. Tell you what: if we make it back to Bastok alive I'll teach you how to dance. Not just tavern dances, but the pretty dances that San d'Orian royalty do in their ballrooms."

"You're just saying that because I'm all but carrying you back to Bastok."

Irina shrugged against Grelda's shoulder. Her face was as pale as snow, and she was panting hard. "Leave me to die here if you truly can't stand me. It'll increase your own chance of survival."

"Neither of us is going to die tonight," Grelda said. "Tell _you_ what: I know a little blacksmithing from my own daddy. I'll make you a new dagger out of mythril, sharp enough to cut a breath of air, and you can give up stealing."

"'_Sharp enough to cut a breath of air_'. That was almost poetic. And here I thought you were a musclebound—oh, _Goddess_..." Irina staggered heavily to one side as she stumbled over a stone, and Grelda caught her before she could completely fall. She checked the tourniquet, which had slowed the bloodflow to a sluggish ooze but hadn't managed to stop it entirely.

"I can't go on, I can't—" Irina said.

"Shut up. You _will_ keep going, and you _will_ make it to Bastok alive. I'll put you on my shoulders and carry you if I have to."

The two women fell into silence after that, staggering across the bridge spanning the Drachenfall's river. They could hear the waterfall roaring nearby, which allowed them to sneak past the sharp-hearing but almost blind Quadav that lingered close by.

"Okay," Irina panted, "rather than having a white mage attached to every centuria, I think that all legionnaires should be taught some basic white magic, just enough for a Cure spell or two in the field. We'd be back in Bastok right now if my leg were just a little better."

"We're halfway there," Grelda said, which was almost the truth. "Tell me why you joined the military."

"Because Baleful Wind did."

"What?"

"He was my fiancé."

"But he's a Galka! He's sterile, he can't..." Grelda trailed off, gesturing at nothing with her sword to try and explain what she was thinking.

"So?" Irina panted. "His heart was normal, and that's what mattered."

_And now he's dead_, Grelda realized. "I'm sorry," she said.

"We would have gotten married before enlisting, but the marriage registrar refused to accept our union. Bigotry! Elvaan and Humes and even Mithra can intermarry, but not Galkans and Humes? It's unfair. We wrote a letter to President Karst, but he never replied. Blasted politician isn't going to get _my_ vote next elec—"

"Hush!" Grelda hissed, and gestured with her sword at a nearby Quadav. The two Hume women gave the beastman a wide berth, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. Irina was leaning on Grelda harder than ever and unconsciously dragging her feet. She was shaking hard and had developed a strange, rattling noise in her throat when she breathed.

"Your turn," Irina gasped when the Quadav was well behind them. "Tell me about Kimal."

Grelda sighed. "His parents came from Aht Urgan and moved in next to mine about a year after I was born. We've been friends since before we could talk, and my family helped his integrate into Bastokan society."

"So you're childhood sweethearts? That's adorable."

"No—just friends. He likes his women dumb and giggly rather than, um..."

"Muscular and hardheaded?"

"Yeah."

"And you joined the military out of patriotism?"

"Yep. I want to be an Iron Musketeer."

"Oh, how _noble_," Irina rasped.

They were almost at Obere Creek. A few crabs scuttled out of their way as the two Hume women approached, but there were no goblins in sight. Irina's knees buckled just before they reached the bridge, and Grelda dragged her the last of the way onto the rough wooden planks. She helped Irina drink from the stream, which seemed to revive her somewhat and brighten her dull eyes.

"I can't get up," Irina muttered, and she was right. Her legs gave out from underneath her whenever Grelda dragged her upright.

"Let's take off your armor," Grelda suggested, and spent the next five minutes undoing buckles and loosening straps. Irina was even paler than her breastband and loincloth beneath the bronze, and her eyes had dulled again. She still tightly clutched her dagger, but that seemed to be all she was capable of. Grelda knelt down and picked her up, putting the other woman over her shoulders. She straightened with a grunt of effort, then took one step. Then another. Then another. The world narrowed down to the dusty, moonlit soil in front of her feet and the aching weight on her back.

"Irina? Talk to me," Grelda gritted out.

There was no reply. After a few more steps there was a _tink_ noise as something metal hit a rock, and Grelda looked down to see Irina's dagger lying in the dust. She forced herself to kneel and pick it up, then straightened again. She put the knife between her teeth and resumed walking. The gate to Port Bastok was in small in the distance, the lamps blazing like stars come to earth. Her arm ached. Her shoulders ached.

_Just one more step. Then one more. Then one more..._

The gate was close. Grelda noticed the uneven terrain change to paving beneath her feet, and heard her steps echoing in a tunnel. She panted.

_Just one more step. Then one more. Then one more..._

"Soldier!" an Iron Musketeer on gate-guarding duty said.

Grelda drew herself to attention, swayed, then fell to her knees. She looked up at the Galka and croaked, "Recruit from training contubernium A12. Mission was to clear Zegham Hill of beastmen. We were... attacked by..."

She fainted.


	3. The Fallen

**In order to make Bastok more of a functional city, I've added a hospital and a police force. It is, of course, fictional and not part of the in-game FFXI experience.**

* * *

"Ooh, looky-wooky. She's coming awound!" someone said in a horribly cheerful, high-pitched voice.

"That appears to be so," someone else said.

Grelda dragged her eyes open and found herself staring into the face of a Tarutaru woman only a few inches away. "Good aftawnoon!" she said.

The Hume woman jerked back, knocking her head against a wall behind her. She winced and reached up to rub the spot with one hand, and saw that the cut on her arm was healed. It looked like a months-old injury now, scarred over and painless. Grelda stared at it in horror.

"How... how long was I asleep?" she asked.

"Seven hours," the Tarutaru man standing a polite distance away said. He took in her confused expression and added: "First time experiencing serious white magic, huh?"

Grelda nodded.

"You weally needed-weeded it!" the woman said. "You was weally bashed-mashed all up!"

"Severe bruising, moderate blood loss, that nasty cut, and a broken rib," the man said, "as well as over-exertion from carrying a corpse."

Grelda froze. "Irina?" she whispered.

The Tarutaru woman's eyes flooded with sympathy. "She was youw fwiendy-wendy?" she asked. "I'm sowwy."

"The grapevine is talking about a medal for bringing her body back to Bastok," the man said. "So good job on that, I suppose."

"What grapevine?"

"The military grapevine, of course! Gossip spreads quicker through a legion than through an old grannies' knitting club, didn't you know that? Oh, wait—Jopopo, we forgot to introduce ourselves."

"I'm Jopopo!" the Tarutaru woman said with a giggle, bouncing on the balls of her tiny feet.

"And I'm Kital-Bidal," the Tarutaru man said, giving a slight bow. "You're in the military hospital in Metalworks, and Musketeer Ayame requested to be alerted the moment you regained consciousness. She should be here any minute now."

"Who's she?" Grelda asked, sitting up in her narrow cot. Her bed was alone in a small room, the privilege of which was usually reserved for centurions and up, and there was a nightstand with a pitcher of water and a cup. Grelda helped herself, discovered that the water was cold enough to make her teeth hurt, and drank greedily.

"Ayame is one of the Mythril Musketeers," Kital-Bidal said.

Grelda coughed on her water. "Why would a Mythril Musketeer want to talk to _me_?" she asked hoarsely.

"Well, it's fairly rare for a recruit to come stumbling back to Bastok, wounded and carrying her dead comrade, and then collapse just inside the gate. You've managed to make several important people quite worried."

"Oh."

There was a knock on the door, and Grelda quickly set her cup aside. A female Hume samurai wearing red and black armor walked in, fixing Grelda with a piercing stare. Grelda quickly got to her feet, which made dazzle spots explode in front of her eyes. She swayed in place as she saluted.

"Easy, Legionnaire," Ayame said. "You can sit down."

Grelda gratefully did so, acutely aware she was wearing a shapeless cotton hospital gown rather than her armor.

"Can you tell me what happened on Zegham?" Ayame asked, folding her arms over her chest.

"We were... It was night, a watch was set. It was Lowen's turn, which meant the attack occurred before midnight. We had dug entrenchments at the entrance to the summit, but the goblins somehow climbed the steeper slopes. I saw them coming over the edge in places that should have been inaccessible. There were only goblins, no Quadav or other beastmen. Decurion Torin called the alarm, and we fought. Ma'am, there were goblins there that were too strong to ordinarily be found in Gustaberg, such as Tinkerers and Butchers. Irina and I were fighting together against such a goblin, which threw a bomb. We fell over the edge of Zegham's summit, and Irina was severely injured. We decided... we decided to... because of Irina's injuries, we decided to return to Bastok rather than return to the fight." Grelda looked down, unable to meet Ayame's gaze.

"So, you retreated," the samurai observed.

"Yes, ma'am," Grelda said. Her hands clenched in the sheets.

"Sometimes it's wise to leave the battlefield," Ayame said, "if you'd chosen to return to it, nobody would have brought word to Bastok of the attack. I need you to get dressed and arm yourself for another excursion into Gustaberg, Legionnaire. Meet me at the Bastok Markets gate in ten minutes."

"Ma'am?" Grelda asked as Ayame turned to leave.

"Yes?"

"Why are you addressing me as a Legionnaire?"

"You're no longer a recruit; you've passed your training exam."

"...Oh."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Ayame's face, and then she left the hospital room. Grelda stared at the door for a moment, then shook herself. She stood up slowly, keeping a hand on the nightstand until the dizziness passed.

"How do I get my armor?" she asked.

"Quartermaster's office, right down the hall," Kital-Bidal said.

"I can takey-wakey you!" Jopopo chimed in, standing on tip-toe to take Grelda's hand. Stooping a little, Grelda was led out of the hospital room, feeling silly as she walked past fully-clad Legionnaires in her gown and bare feet. A few people stopped and looked at her, but none spoke. Jopopo took her to a room lined with shelves full of the belongings of invalid Legionnaires and their officers. Sitting at a desk was a fussy-looking older Elvaan man with spectacles.

"So you're the newest war hero, eh?" he demanded, looking Grelda up and down.

"More like a war survivor, sir," Grelda replied. "I'd like my armor and weapon, sir."

"Fine, fine..." the Elvaan grumbled, quickly scrawling something with a reed pen and then standing up from his desk. He reached up with a soft groan, hefting a Legionnaire's harness down from a shelf, quickly followed by the subligar, mittens, cap, and leggings. It looked much the same as the training harness set Grelda had worn previously, but the bronze was heavier and sturdier. She was also given a bee spatha and a maple shield. She returned to her room to change, and a tight line of tension in her shoulders eased as she took on the familiar weight of leather and metal. When she stepped out of the door she found the Tarutaru healers waiting for her.

"Hello," Grelda said, then coughed. "I mean, um, goodbye."

"Hmph," Kital-Bidal said. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope I don't see you again in this hospital."

"Don't get injawed! Stay safe!" Jopopo said, rushing in for a hug. Grelda knelt down to embrace the tiny woman, who squeezed her with surprising strength before letting go and bouncing back to Kital-Bidal's side.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll do my best to be careful."

"Hmph," Kital-Bidal said again and folded his arms over his chest. Jopopo waved as Grelda walked away down the corridor. She quickly left the hospital, relaxing in the familiar maze that was Bastok Metalworks. A few blacksmiths, recognizing Kirill's eldest daughter, waved or called out greetings. Grelda waved back, but didn't pause in her determined trot towards the entrance. She left Metalworks and rounded Firewater Circle, feeling oddly vulnerable. For four weeks she had slept, ate, and trained in a group of nine other Legionnaire recruits, and now... Grelda was alone. She blinked back tears as she went down Kulatz Bridge, and saw Ayame holding the reins of two chocobos in front of the gate.

"Good to see you geared up, Legionnaire," Ayame said in lieu of a greeting. "Let's get going."

"I've never ridden a chocobo before, ma'am," Grelda said, eyeing the massive birds. One was preening its wing, and the other was looking around. There was a surprising intelligence in its eyes, and when its gaze fell on her Grelda couldn't help but feel she was being measured.

"It's not hard," Ayame assured her. "Just step into the saddle and stay there. Sunny will follow Paula anywhere."

"Er... Sunny?"

"Their names, Legionnaire. Mythril Musketeers get to have personal mounts." Ayame gestured to the preening chocobo: "Paula," and then to the one trying to drag Grelda into a staring contest: "Sunny."

Acutely aware that she was being watched by a Mythril Musketeer, Grelda walked up to the enormous, yellow-feathered creature called Sunny. It cocked its head to one side, seeming to consider her, then lunged for her face with an open beak. Grelda raised her shield just in time, swatting the bird's face away and stepping neatly to its side. She jammed her foot into the stirrup, made an awkward hop as the chocobo sidestepped, then heaved herself up into the air and plopped down into the saddle. Sunny croaked an indignant protest at the sudden weight on its back, but then seemed to resign itself to the burden.

Ayame mounted Paula with a fluid grace that Grelda doubted she could ever replicate, then did something with her knees that made the chocobo turn towards the open gate and begin running down the long tunnel to Gustaberg. Sunny let out a startled noise, turned, and began following. Grelda gritted her teeth and clung to the reins for dear life, sawing them to one side or the other whenever she saw Ayame turn. Sunny kept its head turned towards Paula's tail feathers, largely ignoring the Hume on its back trying to jerk its head from side to side.

The ride, compared to the half-day march to Zegham, was mercifully short. Quadav and goblins either ignored the pair of chocobos or knew better than to try and chase them, and the wind streaming past them made the glaring sun more bearable. The chocobos didn't seem to tire, and plunged across the dusty landscape at a speed that Grelda, used to traveling only as fast as her own two feet could carry her, found uncomfortable.

Paula began to shy halfway up Zegham's slope, slowing to a walk and twittering anxiously. Ayame urged the bird onward, and Sunny, now also shying and twittering, reluctantly followed. The two chocobos became more and more distressed the further upward they went, and when they reached the summit the reason became apparent.

It was a scene of carnage.

The bodies of the recruit Legionnaires lay scattered among the gravestones, unmoving and already beginning to rot in the intense summer heat. The smell made Grelda want to gag as she slipped off Sunny's back, her booted feet landing heavily in the dirt.

"Ma'am, the heads... the heads are missing," Grelda said, looking around. All of the corpses had been decapitated.

Ayame sniffed. "Typical beastman butchery," she said, "though not something common in Gustaberg. Were you in the police force before joining the ranks, Legionnaire?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then it's time you learned some basic investigation skills. Tell me what you see."

"Well, ma'am, they're all dead, and the heads are gone," Grelda said slowly, wondering what else there was to note. They'd need a cart to haul the corpses off Zegham, and they'd need to do before nightfall, when the Black Wolves and Enchanted Bones that haunted Zegham's slopes came out of their holes.

"Keep going, Legionnaire," Ayame said.

"Their... their weapons are gone too," Grelda also noticed, then walked over to Lowen's corpse. Breathing through her mouth, she knelt down and checked his neck for the slender chain with his engagement ring and identification tag. It was also missing. She went to Horatio and Baleful Wind, and found the same thing. "And their identification chains and tags have been taken," she finished.

Ayame nodded and rubbed her chin. "All beastmen will loot weapons and foodstuffs from corpses, though only goblins will go for personal items and trinkets. This instance, along with the missing heads, might be a demoralizing tactic. I'll need your help identifying the bodies, Legionnaire."

"Of course, ma'am. The Galka is Baleful Wind, and the two Hume men here are Horatio and Lowen. And this darker-skinned Hume man is K-Kimal..." Grelda's voice cracked. She knelt down next to her childhood friend, turning his body over from where it was lying chest-down. She held his limp hand, warm to the touch only because of the sun, and swallowed the sob rising in her throat.

"We don't have much time for sentimentality, Legionnaire," Ayame said. "Continue."

"The Hume woman is Sabine, and this Elvaan woman is Nimashelle. The two Hume men by the monument are Claude and Gerrin. Decurion Torin is... around," Grelda said, gesturing at a hand, a leg, and a few chunks of bloodstained, blasted bronze scattered around a patch of scorched and blackened earth. "Irina died at the gate, and I'm still here."

Grelda took a deep breath as she finished, then wiped her eyes free of moisture with the back of her gauntlet. She hadn't been especially close with all the members of her contubernium, but they had fought together, trained together, learned together... and then died together. Except for her.

"Where... Where is Irina's dagger, ma'am?" Grelda asked.

"Was that the non-regulation weapon you arrived at the gate carrying?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have it here," Ayame said, and produced the weapon from Paula's saddlebags. She handed it over to Grelda, who took it like a priceless artifact. In the light of day it was just a common dagger, clearly old, with a wire-wrapped hilt and a blade that had been sharpened so many times it was thin as a moonbeam. Grelda tested the edge against her thumb, then stuck the digit in her mouth and sucked away the blood that blossomed suddenly against her pale skin. The dagger was already sharp enough to cut a breath of air. Grelda turned it over and over in her hands, watching the play of light along the blade and thinking.

Ayame let her have several minutes of silence, picking up a stick of charcoal from the remains of the campfire and writing names on the bodies of the fallen recruits. When she was finished she tossed the stick aside and looked at Grelda. "Any closing comments, Legionnaire?"

Grelda looked up from the dagger. "How will we avenge them?"

"A half-centuria of Legionnaires will go goblin-hunting through Gustaberg and Dangruf Wadi, and we'll find and finish off the perpetrators."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, Legionnaire, that's all we can do," Ayame said, her voice going clipped. Grelda, recognizing the irritation in the other Hume woman's tone, bit her tongue rather than reply. She stuck the dagger into her belt, dodged Sunny's beak, and mounted the chocobo as Ayame flowed into Paula's saddle. The ride back to Bastok by the dimming afternoon sunlight was uneventful. They dismounted just inside the gate.

"Thank you for your help today, Legionnaire," Ayame said. "I'll remember your service."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Your new contubernium is the eighth of the fifth centuria. Report every Lightsday for training—"

"Ma'am!" Grelda said, then checked herself. "Ma'am, the fifth centuria is part of the reserve force."

"So it is, Legionnaire."

"I'd been on track for active duty, ma'am."

"Not anymore, Legionnaire. Bastok has decided it needs you in the reserves."

"But—"

"I didn't make this decision, Legionnaire. Don't try and argue about it with me."

Grelda clenched her hands into fists at her sides and bowed deeply as Ayame trotted away down Kulatz Bridge to Metalworks. Grelda straightened up from her bow when the Hume woman was a safe distance away, looking into the light of the setting sun and wondering what to do next.


End file.
